Start Again
by ArmidaLore01
Summary: AU. "When Albion's need is greatest, Arthur will rise again." Does that include when the world has ended in a zombie apocalypse?
1. Prolouge: The Return

Two of my favorite tv shows in one fanfic! I adore the Walking Dead and Merlin, and I really wanted to put these two fandoms together. I really hope you all enjoy it:)

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Walking Dead or Merlin. They belong to their rightful owners.

* * *

He felt a gentle tug pull the sides of his mouth up in a triumphant smirk as he pressed down on the trigger, watching as the arrow whistled through the air with unwavering confidence that it would not fail to reach its target. The sound of his weapon imbedding itself in the squirrel, tearing through the flesh of their future meal, and the sharp thud indicating the arrowhead hit wood reached his ears, and with a soft click of his tongue, he urged Nelly forward to retrieve his prize. Once the squirrel was securely attached to his belt, he set forward once more.

Blue-grey eyes narrowed his fierce concentration, glancing at his surroundings. The little girl was still out there, and she could have passed through here. He examined the woods with careful thoroughness, his eyes scanning the forest floor, the bark on the trees, the leaves, searching for any sign of a disturbance that could indicate the little girl's whereabouts.

He wasn't sure how he managed to find it, but upon jumping down off Nelly's back and trekking his way down the hill toward the river for a closer look at the familiar looking object, he knew his eyes weren't deceiving him.

Sophia's doll.

His pace increased slightly as he moved forward, reaching down and picking up the soaked doll. The fabric was filthy and tearing slightly, water dripping from the ends. He looked up, searching. Was she somewhere nearby?

"Sophia!" he called out, a small, lingering hope in the back of his mind, no matter how illogical it was, that she could hear him. There was no reply.

A newfound determination filling him, he turned around and went back to the tied up mare.

He continued on horseback for a while, eventually coming upon a steep cliff. A few birds squaked and disappeared in a flurry of feathers at his approach. Nelly snorted nervously, bucking her head back, away from the cliff and the noise.

"Hey, hey , whoaaa. C'mon girl," he soothed, pulling the reins away from the cliff, steering the mare to walk parallel to it. He continued his search, eyes narrowed, hips moving in tandem with Nelly's sway.

In retrospect, he should have seen it coming.

For all the grief he had given Andrea before about her lack of observing skills, for all he had done in order to build up that reputation he had with the group of being the most observant, he _really_ should have seen it coming. But he had stupidly kept his eyes up, opting to stare off into the trees toward his right, instead of paying attention to what was in front of him.

And he hadn't seen the snake until he was already halfway off of Nelly's saddle, the mare neighing in a mortified panic as she and reared and bucked furiously, successfully throwing him off on her second try.

The snake slithered away, unharmed, as he tumbled down the cliff.

Every impact his body made going down the cliff, every time a limb or his head met the ground, a tree branch, a stump, a rock, everything was met with a wild, pained gasp. And he could not for the life of him stop his rapid descent down the cliff, his hands surely cut up and bloody from his attempts. A scathing, white-hot flash of pure agony struck with such a fierceness in his side that he wanted to cry out, to scream, but yet another tumble prevented this, and he could only gasp as the air was knocked out of him.

He didn't know when his fall turned wet, but there he was, no longer tumbling but sliding down a slippery rock, water from a nearby waterfall soaking the rock and drenching him. Again, he couldn't stop his fall, his hands slipping and sliding every time he tried.

All he could do was brace himself for the end.

It came a lot quicker than he anticipated, the strong impact once again leaving him breathless, a strong form of suffocation overcoming him as the water splashed in his face and came up past his ears, leaving him gasping in the shallow end of the river.

"Son of a bitch!" he hissed, eyes clenched together as he realized what the source of the pain in his side was.

One of his arrows had pierced him.

Groaning and panting, he lifted his head up to inspect the damage. It had gone through clean, but he knew he had to act fast; the reddening water around him indicated his rapid loss of blood.

With a loud cry that sounded more like a whimper, Daryl dragged himself to his feet, hand propped up on his side to try to slow down the blood flow. Cautiously, he waded into the deeper water, doing his best to not let the current shift his balance. He stumbled the last few steps, gasping in agony.

His knees on the shore, he reached back and pulled out his knife, turning it towards his sleeves and splitting them from the seams. Using as much strength as he could, he took the sleeves and make a makeshift tourniquet, knowing it wasn't much, but it was all he could do until he returned back to Hershel's farm.

But before he could think about returning, he needed his crossbow.

He glanced around frantically, searching for his prime weapon. Seeing that it was not in sight, Daryl knew that left one other option: it was in the river. Teeth clenched and brows furrowed together tightly, he staggered over to the nearby trees, hoping to find a branch of some sort to use as a staff. Fortunately, he did not have to look long; he pull out a long, straight branch that he was sure could hold his weight. Huffing, he turned back to the water.

Finding his crossbow was a harder task than he thought it would be; he used the branch as a guide, skimming the lake river bed with it, trying to see if it would hit anything hard. However, this was done in the deepest part of the river, so he struggled to keep his balance, the branch serving a second purpose for this, and trying not to strain his injury. When he finally did find his crossbow and pulled it out of the depths of the river, he waded back to shore.

A strange bubbling sound made him halt, already in the shallow part of the river. The bubbling grew louder and louder, and cautiously Daryl turned to look behind him.

He wasn't expecting the river to bubble furiously as if boiling at the spot in which he had retrieved his crossbow, nor for the head that surfaced in the middle.

"Oh shit!" Daryl gasped, throwing his crossbow onto the dry shore in his haste to go back into the river. His injury flared and throbbed in protest, but he could only focus on one thing: someone needed his help, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let him drown.

The water slowed his movements dramatically, and his injury wasn't helping, but he pushed his body forward, swimming with harsh strokes as he noticed the man's head sinking. He cursed and dove into the water, blindly searching for the man with his hands, swimming and searching.

His hands brushed against something… _metal_? He kicked forward and identified an arm and he kicked upward, a deep, wild gasp leaving him as he gulped in the oxygen he desperately needed. Blinking the water out of his eyes, he glanced at the unconscious man in his arms as he struggled to pull him back to shore. Was he wearing…. _armor_?

Explains why the hell he's so heavy, Daryl thought darkly, grunting and groaning with the effort as he pulled the man closer and closer to shore, trying his hardest to not add any more strain than he already did to his injury. Unfortunately, his heroic action seemed to take a large toll on him; he was starting to see black at the edge of his vision.

One last heave and they were on the narrow, shallow area of the river, where he laid the man down. His blonde hair looked very brown from being soaked, and he looked young. But what Daryl couldn't fathom was why on earth he was wearing _armor_, of all things.

"Oh God, c'mon," Daryl hissed, crawling forward and beginning to take off the armor. Miraculously, he somehow managed to remove it, and threw it aside, revealing a dark red tunic in its place. Daryl placed his head on the man's chest. He found a faint heartbeat, but without the man breathing it wouldn't be beating much longer.

"C'mon," he urged, placing the heel of his hand in the middle of his chest, his other hand interlacing with the first, and began to do compressions. "Come on!" He counted 30 compressions, and no change. With a growl, he tilted the man's head back, pinching his nostrils shut and covered his mouth with his own. His breath caused the man's chest to rise, but still the man wouldn't wake. Daryl moved his head to the side, drew in a deep breath and repeated the process.

He moved to do compressions again when a wave of strong fatigue hit him. He blinked rapidly as the black around his vision began to draw in even more, shaking his head rapidly. The arrow in his side was finally showing its full effect, and the blood he lost was slowing his movements, making him sluggish and drowsy.

"No, no, no," Daryl muttered, blinking his eyes rapidly, shaking his head. "No, come on!"

Adrenaline filled him as he placed his hands on the man's chest again, continuing the compressions.

_6...7….8…._

"C'mon!"

_14...15...16…._

"_Come on_!"

_21...22 -_

The man spluttered, coughing and hacking, water spewing past his lips as he tried to clear his lungs. Daryl almost collapsed in relief. The man beat at his chest, deep, rumbling coughs leaving him as the last of the water left him and he was gulping down air. Daryl softly hit the man's back with a closed fist, helping him ride out the last of the ordeal.

His arm fell, and Daryl fell with it, collapsing to his side as the darkness darted across his vision, the pain in his side almost unbearable to deal with consciously. The man, fully aware of his company by then, was staring at him with wide eyes, and he moved forward, placing a freezing, still-wet hand on Daryl's bare arm.

Daryl voice came out in a mutter, as his vision began to turn blurry.

"Who… Who the hell are you s'pposed to be?"

The man, startled at Daryl's voice, jumped and stammered, "I'm- I-I'm Arthur."

Daryl gasped as his side struck another agonizing blow. "Well, _Arthur_, you're freakin' welcome."

His voice was weak, and his vision was leaving him. The last thing he saw was Arthur's wide, cerulean-blue eyes before he succumbed to the darkness.


	2. Chapter 1: Rough Start

Here's chapter one of Start Again. Hopefully I'll be able to update regularly. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of either the Walking Dead or Merlin. They belong to their rightful owners.

* * *

When he finally wakes, the sun is piercing, stabbing him through his closed eyelids. He only had a split-second of aware consciousness before he groaned, feeling like someone took an axe to his head. His eyes squeezed shut even tighter, trying to fight the glare of the sun's rays, turning his head to the side.

He tried to breathe in deeply, and found himself curling up into himself as a coughing fit took over him, throat scratchy and sore and _goddamn someone was ripping his vocal chords out_. The fit and his movement caused his injury, which he had forgotten about, to flare up again, the pain increasing tenfold, and he gasped, eyes flying open.

Someone was staring at him.

His instincts kicked in and he stumbled to get up to a defensive stance, his previous agony forgotten and pushed aside for the moment, snarling as he reached back for his crossbow. Except it wasn't there. He noticed his familiar weapon propped up against the tree right behind the man. Arthur, he suddenly remembered. The man he saved in the river.

"You're awake," Arthur said bluntly.

He was sitting on a fallen log, elbows propped on each knee, shirtless, and it was then that Daryl noticed three things.

One, they weren't at the river anymore, though he could hear the faint sound of the water running nearby. It seemed as though Arthur had managed to either drag or carry Daryl to a drier bank close to the river. The steep cliff was behind them, several trees scattered around them.

Two, in Arthur's hand was Daryl's knife. The man's hand was wrapped around the handle in a vice-like grip, and there was what looked like fresh blood on the blade.

Three, there were two fallen walkers on the ground right in front of them.

"The hell happened?" Daryl growled, eyes narrowed warily at this stranger. He may have saved him from drowning, but here he was, weaponless, the only thing standing in between him and his crossbow being Arthur, and the man had taken his knife and showed no signs of letting go of it.

Arthur blinked, his expression blank. "You saved my life."

"Yeah I got that part, genius," Daryl snapped. His side throbbed again, and he placed his hand on the source of the pain and whipped his head down to his side once he realized something else: The arrow was gone, replaced with a familiar looking red cloth, wrapped tightly around his torso and pressing on his injury. "Did you do this?" he motioned toward his side, moving to wrap the cloth (which he figured was Arthur's shirt) a bit more securely around his waist.

Arthur, the frown he was wearing after Daryl's remark disappearing for the moment, glanced at the injury for a moment and nodded. "Well, I'm no Merlin," he muttered, "but I did the best I could, considering-"

Daryl's head snapped up at Arthur's statement. "What did you just say? Did you say Merle?"

Arthur frowned again, eyebrows creasing, as if offended that he had been interrupted. "No. Who's _Merle_? You… you spoke his name while you were unconscious."

Daryl blanched at that. "... I spoke?"

"Yes. I thought you had woken up, but you wouldn't respond to anything I said. You kept saying 'Merle.' The rest was pretty incoherent."

Daryl's stiff posture relaxed at this added piece of information; he was always a man that appreciated and valued his privacy, and knowing that this man, a complete stranger to him, caught him in a vulnerable state, one where he could have easily revealed far too much information about himself, made his skin crawl. He gave Arthur no chance to respond or question him any further before he gestured at the dead walkers. Well, as dead as dead people could possibly be. "What happened with these guys?"

Something in Arthur's expression darkened and a muscle in his cheek twitched, his jaw set. "I… I honestly have no idea. I was carrying you after I removed the arrow from your side and patched you up," - Daryl snorted- "hey, I tried, alright? I found this area for us to rest in. You weren't waking, and the only way I knew you weren't already dead was your incomprehensible mumbling.

"There was movement in the shrubs and bushes nearby, and I thought it may have been something I could hunt for dinner. I found this knife on you," Arthur stated, glancing back down at the blade.

"So you searched me! You looted me while I was unconscious like some freakin' vulture!"

"I needed a weapon," Arthur cut in sharply. "I had no clue they made crossbows that big, and I wasn't about to use it. _I meant no harm_."

Daryl scowled heavily and scoffed, but remained quiet. Arthur pursed his lips.

"So I went over to the noise, trying to see if I could ambush it before it escaped and…. Oh gods, it was a _human_. A _rotting human_. Its face… It was _gone_. And what remained was either hanging off or torn to shreds." Arthur blanched at the retelling of the incident, his grip on the knife even more pronounced than before, his knuckles turning white with the effort.

"Yup, that's a walker for you," Daryl muttered, sparing the corpses next to him a sidelong glance.

"Walkers?"

"Where have you been the last few months?" Daryl snapped impatiently. "Dead people. Roaming the streets. Taken over the world. Ain't exactly news."

"_Dead people_?"

"Good Lord, you're like another Grimes," Daryl sighed, running a hand across his face, lowering himself back to the ground. His headache felt like it increased by double, and it was joined with a slight wave of dizziness.

"Grimes?"

"Long story," Daryl said shortly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Arthur's constant questions were putting him in a fouler mood than he already was, but he tried for the man's sake to spare him as much as he could; if Arthur was anything like Rick, this may prove to be just as overwhelming to him as it was to the former sheriff. He squeezed his eyes shut quickly before opening them, trying to blink past the black dots forming in his vision again. "If you had no clue of what was happening, how's it you killed 'em?"

"... I don't know," Arthur shook his head, pale and starting to tremble slightly as the events of the day caught up to him. "I really don't." Daryl huffed. Then he slowly began to stand, stumbling a bit as another wave of dizziness hit him. Arthur watched him, alarmed. "What are you doing? You should be resting!"

"I got people waiting on me," Daryl growled, keeping a close eye on Arthur as he slowly, cautiously, approached the other man. Never taking his eyes off of Arthur, and moved to walk behind him, reaching over for his crossbow, instinctively working out ways to defend himself if Arthur were to lunge at him with the knife. Grabbing a hold of his crossbow, he almost leapt back, though somewhat awkwardly; placing too much weight on the leg below where his injury resides proved to be a bad idea. Arthur hadn't moved, instead studying Daryl with furrowed brows, tapping the flat part of the blade against his knee nervously. "Need to get back to 'em."

A look of protest overcame Arthur's face. "You should rest! Your injury-"

"I don't recall ever calling you my momma, so I really don't see how it's any of your damn business of what I should and shouldn't do," Daryl retorted, everything in his expression screaming danger. This Arthur had some nerve about him.

Arthur opened his mouth as if to say something else, but decided against it and shut it. This man clearly was not going to listen to him, and if he was going to pass out or even die from his untreated injury, then nobody would say Arthur didn't try. So he settled for glaring at Daryl instead with piercing, disapproving eyes.

Daryl rolled his eyes and slung his crossbow over his shoulder, grunting with the effort and slight pain it caused him. He began to walk backwards carefully, still refusing to take his eyes away from Arthur. Once he was far enough, he turned, knowing that this much distance between the two men would be enough so that if Arthur tried sneaking up on him, he's have time to react. When he didn't hear footsteps following him immediately afterwards, he glanced over his shoulder.

Arthur had not moved, still watching him from his place on the log.

Daryl scoffed, moving his free hand toward his injury. "You comin' or what?"

Arthur's blue eyes narrowed, as if contemplating whether or not to stay with this man. A complete stranger, and not a very trusting stranger at that. Yet, he had saved Arthur from drowning, and in turn he had attempted to save him the best he could. And he didn't even know his _name_.

"What's your name?" Arthur asked, still tapping the blade.

Daryl scowled. "Listen, you comin'? I ain't got time for 20 questions. You can stay here and feed the walkers for all I care, but I'm heading back. Your choice."

This time, when he turned back around to walk away, he heard prompt footsteps following him.

.:.

Unknown to Daryl and Arthur, somewhere not too far away in these same woods walked another person, clutching a bloodied hammer and machete, certainly looking worse for wear. His t-shirt was pretty much a torn rag for the good it did him, ripped to the point where it revealed his entire abdomen. His jeans were no better, falling apart at the hems. His entire frontside up to his chin was coated in mud from a previous encounter with a herd a week ago, and he hadn't been able to clean himself off since.

He glanced around him warily, calmly, the only exterior sign of the terror within him being his trembling grip on his weapons.

He didn't know what happened. One minute, he was finally resting after a long day of defending his hut from the undead, sleep capturing him the moment he hit the mattress. The next minute he was lying in a ditch on the side of a paved road, his prime weapons next to him and nothing else, the terrifying sound of the undead's moans reaching his ears.

He had no clue as to how he got there.

Though, once the terror of encountering the undead had worn off and he was well away from them, he knew one thing for certain.

He had been placed here for a reason.

There was a purpose for him being here, he could sense that much. It was in the back of his mind, struggling to be acknowledged. He knew there was something to be done, to be found, to be fixed, _something_. He just didn't know what.

His feet were guiding him although his mind had no clue where he was going, and though he was terrified and beside himself with panic at what he may encounter ahead, a fierce determination ignited in him to reach it and fulfill his purpose, no matter what the cost.

And so, a newfound strength that he hadn't felt in over a thousand years flowing through him, the warlock Merlin continued down his path.


End file.
